I'm Yours
by sdbubbles
Summary: After an awful shock, Sandra and Gerry both need someone to lean on, but neither will ask for it.


**A/N: So this is set after news of Jack's death reaches UCOS, so it's a little sad but a little cute.**

**The song is "I'm Yours" by The Script.**

**Sarah x**

* * *

_You've touched these tired eyes of mine_  
_And mapped my face line by line_  
_And somehow growing old feels fine_  
_I listen close for I'm not smart_  
_You wrap your thoughts_ _in_ _works of art_  
_And they're hanging on the walls of my heart._

He's fallen asleep on her sofa after the worst night imaginable and as he slowly wakes himself up, it all floods back to him. What surprises him is that Sandra hasn't buggered off to work as he fully expected her to, even with his presence in her home. Her fingers lightly trace around his face sadly, and he knows she's feeling the same as him: sadness and anger.

He realised last night that age is something more than simply a number. It is the significance of everything and everyone he loves, before it slips away from him. Before _he_ slips away from _them_. He sees Sandra's startlingly beautiful blue eyes and remembers the first thought he had in the pub last night: _I need Sandra, and she needs me_.

The age doesn't bother him, even in light of recent events, when he's with Sandra. She's strange to him, almost foreign. She never does anything simply. She never uses the simple language, unless she's angry and the only words she can find are swearing. Even their first case together, she used a word unfamiliar to him while dishing out one of her infamous bollockings.

He isn't as intelligent as she is - he accepts that. He never went to university, and he got into the Met the old-fashioned way. She was fast-track on the merits of intelligence, drive, ambition and a supreme level of determination. And Jack. But even without Jack she would have been fast-tracked.

All of these things have grown on him over the years, so that they don't annoy him half as much as they amuse him.

_I may not have the softest touch_  
_I may not say the words as such_  
_And though I may not look like much_  
_I'm yours._

He knows they're two very different people. He doesn't let anything show, and he doesn't show any weakness. Even Sandra cracks, and when she does, she doesn't really care if her boys are watching. Particularly if one or all of them is the issue. He's not the softly-softly type. He'd be more likely to tell her to get her arse in gear than try and manipulate her back into a smile.

They do have one huge similarity: neither knows what to tell the other. He doesn't know what to say when she catches him watching her. She doesn't know what to say when he catches her soft smile when he speaks. They're just as bad as each other in that respect, and it was something he was rather grateful. She knows what he's like; she's dealt with him long enough to know that he loves her but just won't admit it.

He's not perfect in anyway, and Sandra quite often points it out. The way he can slaughter the basic concept of the English language. The way he insists he isn't French. He knows her favourite imperfection, though she berates him for it, is his crude sense of humour. Though she tells him to shut his mouth and grow up and wash his mind out with soap, she tells him with an inward smile, only given away by a tiny smirk she doesn't think anyone will notice.

His heart, however flawed, rough and damaged, belongs to her.

_And though my edges maybe rough_  
_I never feel I'm quite enough_  
_And it may not seem like very much_  
_But I'm yours._

"Why you still here?" he asks, regaining the composure of his scrambled thoughts. "Shouldn't we all be at work?" he adds. But he knows Strickland won't make them work today. Steve will go in, but Brian is probably a sobbing, though hopefully sober, wreck right now.

He realises how rude that sounds and cringes internally. But she doesn't seem too bothered about it. She's accustomed to his rather direct, even blunt, approach. He has a habit of taking things out on her, and she does the same to him. He can be really quite mean to her when she, or anyone else for that matter, has put him in a mood.

She says nothing, her hand lightly still on his cheek. Her hands are warm, he notices. He wonders why she's taking the time with him. He's hardly her type, after all. She is the commitment-phobe. She is the one who runs away every time they get closer than just friends. She confuses the hell out of him; sometimes, though, there's a sparkle of life that comes through, just for him.

Even if he can't offer her very much, he is hers forever.

_You healed these scars over time_  
_And braced my soul, you loved my mind_  
_You're the only angel in my life_  
_The day the news came, my best friend died_  
_My knees went weak, and you saw me cry_  
_You said I'm still the soldier in your eyes._

"I can't believe it," he says, and he realises too late that he's crying. She shouldn't have to watch her cry. If anything, she should be crying more than him; she's managed to lose two fathers in forty years. "He can't be gone. He never said a word, did he? All we got is that he retired to France. Probably didn't want to hurt us, I guess. Same old Jack, eh?" he smiles tearfully.

She just puts her arms around him from the floor, pulling him into a tight, almost suffocating, cuddle. This is the side he wishes she would show more often; he isn't hard as rock, and neither is she, but both pretend it so as not to be faced with concern from others. He sometimes thinks that Sandra is the only person who truly accepts every flaw, scar and imperfection he possesses.

Before he knows it, he's crying into her shoulder, something he never really does. He's never really been good with emotions. He prefers to pretend they don't exist. But when something as shattering as the death of a friend, a best friend, come along, there is nothing left to do but cry.

"You must be thinking I'm being a moron," he thinks loudly.

"Nah," she replies. "I'm thinking you're brave for letting it out. You're my tough old cookie, but even the toughest cookie has to crumble just a little."

_I may not have the softest touch_  
_I may not say the words as such_  
_And though I may not look like much_  
_I'm yours._

He pulls her tighter than he ever dreamed he was capable of. She feels soft in his arms, reminding him of his own strength, so he loosens his grip around her body. She doesn't complain about his harsh touch; she just rubs her hand up and down his back, comforting him as he realises there is no way Jack wouldn't have known he was dying.

"He'd have known," Sandra whispers into his ear, repeating his thoughts to him. "Anything to do with the liver - cancer, cirrhosis, liver disease - doctor or no doctor, he would have known. That's why he left. He didn't want us to suffer his death as long as he did," she explains, clearing some of the haze from his thoughts.

That is exactly what he had been trying to find the words for, but as usual, and much to his relief, she beat him to the punch. And, as always, she is direct when it mattered.

Compared to her, he isn't much. He is less than she should accept, but he is more than she wants. She knows him, and she knows what he's like, and she's long stopped trying to change him. Maybe, just maybe, that means she will take him for herself, when she needs him most.

_And though my edges maybe rough_  
_I never feel I'm quite enough_  
_And it may not seem like very much_  
_But I'm yours._

He releases her, meeting her eyes silently. He doesn't quite understand his reasons, but he pulls her back towards him, crushing his lips harshly in to hers, with no regard for perfection or elegance. His hands are knotted in her long golden hair, and he is almost surprised when her feels her lips move, rough and uncontrolled, against his. Her hands reach for his face, no space between them. Just a sofa.

He can almost hear Jack laughing at them, and he knows why. Jack is probably sitting up there pointing out that it only tool them ten years and his death to get them to kiss. And he'd be right, of course. He can never be enough for her, though, which is probably another thing the old man is pointing out. But he's past bothering about that.

There's a need in the way Sandra is kissing him that almost worries him enough to stop. Almost. Because he knows, as much as she would like to pretend otherwise, she is in a lot of pain just now. And this isn't the best thing for her, but it's the best painkiller he can offer her at the moment.

At least now, hopefully, she understands that he belongs to her. That, for many years and through everything, his heart has belonged to her.

_I may not have the softest touch_  
_I may not say the words as such_  
_And though I don't fit in that much_  
_But I'm yours._

She pulls away from him, barely able to breathe, and looks at him in shock. "What just happened?" she wonders aloud. He can't answer her. He can only kiss her again, his hands tight around her wrists. She wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him the closest she possibly can.

This is the consequence of not being able to say it. He can't tell her how he feels when he's so torn up about Jack. He can't even comfort her with words because he knows she doesn't accept sympathy. He's abnormal, but so is she, and maybe that's why they fit so well together. He doesn't fit anywhere else but with her. Three failed marriages and a string of meaningless relationships has taught him that much.

He feels something as he pulls her up onto the sofa that he hasn't felt before. He doesn't understand what that feeling, that surge of emotion, is, but it's what sets Sandra apart from the rest. All he knows is that he loves the woman on top of him dearly, and he knows that she knows he belongs to her, and she belongs to him. Always.

* * *

**Hope this is OK!  
Please feel free to leave a review and tell me what you think!  
Sarah x**


End file.
